


From Hell With L-O-V-E

by realegyptiansilk



Category: Gorillaz
Genre: I’m sorry, Journal, M/M, Multi, i just hope i don’t end up in a dramatic reading of bad fanfics, in advance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-15
Updated: 2018-08-15
Packaged: 2019-06-27 16:35:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15689241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/realegyptiansilk/pseuds/realegyptiansilk
Summary: Murdoc is bloody losing his mind in jail. He’s not usually one to write down his thoughts, but when he’s not shagging or itching for booze, what else is he gonna do?





	1. Chapter 1

A disclaimer: I hate how these things are supposed to be written. Never expect me to write the stupid fucking words dear diary. I’m not a pathetic high school teenager writing his feelings in the form of depressing poems stained with the blood coming from my wrists. Oh, sorry, did that hurt some of you? Good, I like seeing people in pain. Makes me get a laugh. Humhunmhum. Also, I don’t know the damn date. I only see it every few weeks. From what I can see, given only the asscrack of sunlight streaming into my room I’m going to guess it’s around dusk. 

Funny thing I was thinking about during my last perouse of the web; I fucking hate fan fiction. I hate how it nearly always ends so fluffily and domestically, almost as if no one has any real perception of reality. Nonetheless, it is entertaining watching people write the way I shag up with ol’ face ache. Speaking of the sod, I miss having something other than a dry concrete wall to throw things at. It’s dry and has terrible reaction time. Now that I think about it, there’s not much of a difference, except the wall isn’t spiky and blue and doesn’t have a prepubescent voice squeaking and complaining. Roight, what ‘ave I been doing in ‘ere? Well, if Mexican hell’s taught me anythin’, it’s to keep to myself most of the time. Staying quiet is a lot easier than ya may think for me. If I ain’t causing any problems, they have less of a reason to keep me. Not really too interesting.

I met a man with a barb wire tattoo that went from his lower back to his neck. A decent lookin’ bloke, bout me height, beefier than ol Russel after plastic beach. Didn’t talk much but he recognized me. Told me that ‘e got caught just a few days before he was gonna see us on tour. Explained how he never meant to set his house on fire ‘ith his wife and baby girl in it. Put on such an act I nearly believed it. I might not have morals, but hearing that made me realize just how fucked up some people are in here. ‘E told me that he knew a guy in ‘ere that could give me a new tattoo. I now have a smiley face on my hipbone. Too bad I can’t show it on camera. 

Do I miss our big creepy spirit infested house? Do I miss hearing things shout at us in the night? Yes, yes I do. I especially miss the bath. That bath was so warm, almost womb-like, every time I used it I felt all parts completely calm and near death, and it was wonderful. 

I will say that clarity is unsettling. Seeing the world with only one sharp outline is dull. Having everything in focus and steady nearly feels like I’m entering some kind of alternate reality. I’ve been doing a bit more thinking without a haze of amber-colored goggles. That itty bitty rasping voice in the back of my head grows louder every day I go without booze. Must just be a fluke, I don’t remember that being there before. I also don’t know why it sounds a lot like 2-D. Should definitely forget about it. 

Anyway, moving on. I’ve been thinking a lot more about how my actions could affect other people, and after laughing about what I just wrote for about five minutes, I dismissed the thought right into the wall. Concrete hurts. Noted. For some reason, I can’t stop thinking about the blokes in my band. Maybe I... miss them? Just a smidge. Nah, I probably just miss the familiarity. I don’t want these drab walls and disgustingly bright orange to become the new familiar. That’s why I’ve been trying to distract myself with memories of when things were better, but I can’t remember a time where anything was clear or I wasn’t pissing acid. I remember the terrible mornings where I washed down hangovers with scotch and aspirin. Those were the days. I never even HAD to think, just had to drink. Plastic beach, god I miss that disgusting little beautiful paradise. 

I miss Noodle. I’ll give you that much, you stupid bloody piece of glued paper. She was something of a child of mine. 

Nevermind. I don’t want that image and neither do you. Imagine if I had a child.

What if I do?

Jesus christ, I hate this bloody thing. I hate these bloody walls, I just want a fix of something different. I’m tired of thinking. 

I miss my bass.

And my whiskey.


	2. A Good Shag

I still don’t know the date. I’m going to assume that it’s been at least a day or two since I wrote last. I don’t even know if it’s summer, the bloody air is cranked up to freeze-your-cock-and-let-your-balls-shrivel-into-ovaries.

Bet this is as good of time as any that I explain to you what I meant when I said that I’d take any shag as long as it’s good. I don’t give a shit what you’ve got, if you can make me feel better than booze and drugs, you’ve already got what I can give. A good time.

Anyway, after staring at these drab walls for a while, I’ve just had time to remember. It’s a bit like my brain is putting itself together while tearing itself apart at the same time. Strange feeling, really. Wonder if gin would help glue it together at all. Bet it would. Bloody hell, I’ve resorted to chewing on paper at this point. Gives my mind something to do at least when I’m not writing. 

I hate writing. Makes ya really dig into yourself. Makes ya think. I already told you how I feel bout that. Things are always a bit clearer when I can’t see them clearly. Oi, what was I on about? I swear I’m turning into my emo teenage self again, abort mission. Out of all places I could go, I would rather let the Boogeyman fuck my ass until I pissed black and cried blood than go back there. Teenage years are the worst, I promise.

Anyway, so the shag. I was only 13 when I had shagged the first time. Wasn’t the bloody best but at the time I felt like what I imagine God felt like when he discovered he wouldn’t go blind from masturbation. I felt like I had found America full of beautiful native girls that didn’t speak my language—apologies, I feel like I’m crossing back to that nazi territory that Russ warned me about. The  chick was about 3 years older than me at the time, but she fucked like one of her screws was loose, all bouncing and tongue and sucking, and oh man all uncharted territory for me. I bloody had to have come at least 6 times—what the hell was I on about? Oh! Murdoc Niccals coming out of the closet, like its some big reveal that no one knew, I mean come the fuck on mate. Are you surprised? A good shag is a good shag and if I’m honest, blokes know how to handle a cock. Know just how to make you feel the best even at your worst, and look a bloody wreck while doing it. 

If you’re ‘ere to call me selfish I get it. I do, I get it. But not because on occasion the head around my cock is attached to one of its own. I can be bloody selfish, I know that much. I hog the blankets when I share a bed. I normally kick people out but sometimes even a sad bloke like me needs a good, warm body to keep me from the cold. Maybe on occasion I also feign some feelings for a bit of an after-shag laying session. What’s it called? Cuddling? Gah, name itself makes me sick. Too fluffy and cute. Disgusting.

I can’t think of a time where I felt “adorableness” was an attraction factor. Actually, there was once. I had a poor sod in my bed who had come with his groupie girlfriend hoping he could catch some action. Poor bloke, just wanted to see what kind of pleasure his girl could get from the shagmaster 3000 himself. I let ‘im watch because what harm could it do. His girlfriend took off but he stayed behind. I was still up for round two, and he was kind of just there. I played around a bit at first, started with messing about, rough kissing, all teasing, you know. As soon as we hit the mattress though, I was over ‘im... He had this sort of... air to ‘im. A pink twinge to his cheeks. Like he was prepared for me to absolutely wreck him and he was afraid to admit it. I tried to give him that signature look that made all the lasses melt, but man wasn’t having it. He turned into absolute putty in my hands, squeaking almost, moaning, letting me play with him, and I really... I don’t understand what was so attractive about it. I like my nights hard and rough, I like my blokes unbreakable and fast, I like my girls reckless and wild, but this felt different. Still a shag, still a fuck, sure... but I didn’t want to destroy ‘im. I... wanted to make him feel... good?

Sorry, sorry. Had to do it.

He reminded me of someone else. Didn’t seem like he had that same wild side to him though.

That’s a story for another day.

**Author's Note:**

> this is a shitpost and i’m sorry, i’ll get into the good eventually


End file.
